


Sleep

by littlehorror



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, idk basically dean is depressed, idk where this even came from, okay this is pretty depressing i guess, sad!dean, suicidal!dean i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehorror/pseuds/littlehorror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Dean would think about the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is just practice, I guess. I haven't written in a while and I want to get back in the swing of things before I get back to my other fics.

Sometimes, when he was alone and drunk enough, Dean would think about the past. He would indulge in a memory or two. Back when Cas was still around. Cas, with his love of bees, sweaters, and PB&Js. The way his head would tilt ever-so-slightly to the side, like a puppy, when he was confused or didn’t get one of Dean’s references. That small, sweet smile that he reserved for Dean. Usually when they would wake up in each other’s arms, tangled together, still groggy from sleep. 

He missed his eyes, so bright and beautiful and blue. He missed the way his face would scrunch up when he was grumpy, mostly when he was tired or had been woken up too early for his liking. He missed how he could spend hours just sitting outside, watching the bees buzzing about. 

Sometimes, these memories would turn dark. He would see the deep red of Cas’ blood on his hands. He would never forget the look in Cas’ eyes when Dean had held his broken body for the last time. He remembered the way his tears had landed on his fallen angel’s cheeks, mingling and mixing with his own. He could see the blood. So much blood. Too much blood. Blood everywhere. On his hands, on Cas’ face, smeared accross his cheeks, pooling around them until Dean was sitting in a puddle of it. The blood of his beloved. He had pleaded, begged anyone and anything, he had kissed his angel’s face, as though love would be enough. It wasn’t. It never was. He could hear the voice clearly in his head, the panted breaths, struggling desperately to hold on long enough to utter those three words, before going horribly, awfully limp in Dean’s arms. Three words which Dean had held on the tip of his tongue for so long, unable to release them into the open. 

Oh how he wished he had simply let them free while he still could. But Cas knew. Cas had always known. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. 

Dean would fall into a fitful sleep, tears still streaming silently but steadily down his cheeks, a whisky bottle lying, forgotten, empty beside him. He would wake up with a huge hangover and tear tracks on his face. He would resist the urge to punch the mirror when he entered the bathroom, he would ignore Sam’s pitying looks and attempts at talking. Ha! Talking. When did that ever help? It couldn’t bring back the love of his life, and it couldn’t heal his broken heart. 

Sometimes, he wished he had died that night, next to Cas.


End file.
